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That it will live engraven in my face.

‘Yea, though I die the scandal will survive

And be an eyesore in my golden coat.

Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive

To cipher me how fondly I did dote,

That my posterity, shamed with the note,

Shall curse my bones and hold it for no sin

To wish that I their father had not been.

‘What win I if I gain the thing I seek?

A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.

Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week,

Or sells eternity to get a toy?

For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy?

Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,

Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down?

‘lf Collatinus dream of my intent

Will he not wake, and in a desp’rate rage

Post hither this vile purpose to prevent?—

This siege that hath engirt his marriage,

This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage,

This dying virtue, this surviving shame,

Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame.

‘O what excuse can my invention make

When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed?

Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake,

Mine eyes forgo their light, my false heart bleed?

The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed,

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